


Less Boring than Today

by madame_meretrix (laisserais)



Series: Belle & Sebastian 'verse [2]
Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-27
Updated: 2010-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laisserais/pseuds/madame_meretrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Description</b>: Misha's the new kid. Rosie's got a mouth on him. They're both intellectually precocious teenagers in a small military town. Hijinks ensue.</p><p><b>Warnings</b>: Tom Welling is a bully; Mike makes obscure movie references; the characters are underage; there is a lack of adults in this story.</p><p><b>Note</b>: oh my god, you guys, I wrote <i>schmoop</i>. I am disproportionately excited about this. Also: this happens in the same 'verse as <a href="http://madame-meretrix.livejournal.com/39811.html#cutid1">The Stars of Track and Field</a>, but you don't need to read that one to get it. Title taken from Belle and Sebastian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less Boring than Today

Misha's leaning up against the wall outside the gym reading _Howl_ and smoking a Gitane when the fight breaks out.

He's only been at this school two weeks, but so far he's unimpressed. The jocks are pretty vintage, like right out of an afterschool special. A couple of days ago he watched them stuff someone in a locker. No shit.

Right now Welling's shoving someone around. It looks like Rosenbaum. Football players are running towards the ruckus. In a minute, it's going to be a brawl.

"Yeah, go home and get your fuckin' shine box, Tommy," says Rosenbaum. From what Misha's gathered, Mike's the resident homo, existing only to be bashed. Whether he's actually gay or not isn't relevant.

"What's a shine box? Is that some kind of gay thing?" Tom says with a sneer. He's wound up good, clearly loving the audience he's gathering. Misha closes his book and walks over to the growing circle of gapers.

Mike says, "Forget about it, just breakin' your balls." He wipes blood off his chin. For a little guy, he's scrappy. This won't end well.

Misha slips up between them and stares at Tom for a beat. He blows out a smoke ring and Tom scowls. "What the fuck do you want?" Tom says.

Misha smiles. He takes another drag. He knows the look on his face is slightly crazy; he's made an art of being scary. It's saved his ass from a beatdown more than once. Coach Morgan muscles his way through the crowd, saying, "Alright, break it up."

Misha blends back into the crowd, stomping out his smoke. Mike waves off the concerned hand on his shoulder and says it's nothing. Coach Morgan hustles Tom out of the circle and into the gym.

Misha follows Mike off school grounds. He's intrigued. He catches up with Mike and says, "Nice Goodfellas reference."

"Yeah, too bad it's lost on my audience."

"Why's that guy such a jerk?" Misha goes for levity—and maybe a little curiosity—when he adds, "Let me guess: you gave him a handjob behind the bleachers."

"What? No," Mike says, and then, "It was in the equipment room." He smirks and Misha already likes him better than anyone he's met so far in this godforsaken town. "Tom's not gay, he's just confused about his homosociality. Whereas I'm, as they say, a little light in the loafers. And therefore a magnet for ridicule."

Well, there's Misha's answer. "Ah yes, the classic scapegoat scenario," he says, lighting up another cigarette.

Mike nods. "In other words, Tom's just a dick."

"Where you heading?"

"Home," Mike says.

"Mind if I join you?"

Mike shrugs, fingers prodding at his split lip. "Sure."

"I'm Misha, by the way."

"Yeah," Mike says. "I know. New kid, right?"

Misha nods.

"Why'd you move _here_?" Mike put the emphasis on _here_ , as if of all the places one could end up, this town is the most unfortunate. Misha doesn't disagree.

"Army brat."

"Mm," Mike says, preoccupied and still poking at his lip. One of the few remaining industries in town is the military base. Misha guesses that over half of the employed people here work for the government. Maybe that's why it feels like he's stepped into a television show circa 1950.

Mike's house isn't far. When they get inside Mike says, "So what was that back there? Were you going to defend my honor or something?"

Misha takes in the house and its furnishings. If they'd been in a big city, he'd have called the decorating choices 'mid-century modern.' But he has the feeling that all of the stuff in the Rosenbaum house had been purchased new, fifty years ago, and never moved from its current location, except to be dusted under. "Nah," he says. "I just like intimidating football players."

"Yeah, well. I don't know about intimidated, but I've never seen Tom so confused."

Misha smiles. "Six of one," he says and Mike laughs.

"You want something to drink?"

"Coffee?"

"Sure." Mike leads them into the kitchen. Misha sits on a pink vinyl chair at a sparkly pink, diamond-shaped formica table. Seriously, the Rosenbaums could make twice what their house is worth, just by selling their stuff on ebay. It's like walking into a museum.

"The jocks in this town seem especially prone to violence," Misha says.

"Yeah?" Mike's pouring water into a chrome percolator. Misha can't wait to meet his mom; if she's not wearing cat-eye glasses with a beehive, he'll be very disappointed. "Don't have much to compare them to, but maybe it's because we don't get cable. Nothing on TV, and they boarded up the old quarry, so nowhere to take the keg. Once they're done tipping all the cows, what else are they gonna do?"

"That makes sense," Misha says.

Mike sits across from him. Misha pulls out his cigarettes and Mike asks if he can have one, too. They sit silently, smoking and waiting for the coffee to perk. Misha says, "So what does the non-cro magnon portion of the population do for fun?"

"Well, I don't know about anyone else, but I enjoy knocking up cheerleaders and leading prayer meetings."

"Right," says Misha.

Mike gets up and pours out two mugs--vintage milk glass, of course. "Where'd you move from?" Mike asks after sitting down again.

"Most recently, I hail from New York," Misha says. He sips his coffee. Not half bad. "Before that it was Massachusetts. Before that, uh, somewhere in Iowa."

"Huh," Mike says.

Misha studies Mike. He'd noticed him before; they're in the same Spanish class. Mike had been the only one who'd known that Quechua was the native language of Peru, before the Conquistadors had shown up. Misha had been impressed.

Mike seems self-possessed. Smart. He's neat, in the tidy sense of the word, with pressed slacks and a sweater vest. Before Misha had seen his house, he'd assumed it was some kind of ironic statement. Now, though, he wonders if Mike's even in charge of his wardrobe choices. "Nice house," he says.

"I live with my grandparents," Mike says by way of explanation. "Which is why it looks like Leave it to Beaver."

"I was wondering."

"So, what's your deal? You follow me home out of some kind of misguided chivalry?"

"Actually," Misha says, setting down his mug. "I was hoping to get into your pants."

"I see." Mike leans back in his chair and blows a smoke ring toward the ceiling.

"Not today, necessarily, but at some point. I have a long-term strategy."

"Huh," Mike says, standing up. "Well. I don't want to mess with your long-term strategy."

"It's very complex. There's a diorama."

Mike nods like he's picturing it, or maybe imagining Misha hunched over a small cardboard replica of town, superglue in hand. Now Misha's thinking about it, and it makes him laugh. Mike laughs, too. "Maybe you could describe it to me while we're naked," he says.

Misha follows Mike out of the kitchen. His room isn't quite as mint-condition fifties as the rest of the house, but along with such anachronisms as a Radiohead poster and a laptop on the desk, there's a full-sized bed with a bird's eye maple headboard and messy sheets. Misha feels that he can overlook the deviations in decor in favor of finding out how loudly the bed squeaks.

*

Sometimes it feels like high school is going to last a hundred years, and senior year's only just started. Misha had long since given up hoping for pleasant distractions in life, willing himself to just get through it; the promise of graduation and subsequent freedom his only incentive.

So Mike's a welcome surprise.

"With great responsibility," Mike says, jangling a set of keys. "Comes great power." Misha follows him into the backroom of the media lab.

A haphazard pile of VHS tapes make a horrendous crash when they knock into them. Mike's already pulling Misha's shirt out of his trousers and he's working on a hickey. Misha goes with it, slipping Mike's backpack off his shoulders and pulling his sweater vest over his head.

Mike's hand works its way into Misha's trousers. "Hey-- Mike-- Shouldn't we―"

"Sh," says Mike, and then Misha's trousers are around his knees.

"Okay, but it's about to get a lot more crowded in here."

Mike freezes. In slow motion he turns to look where Misha's looking, at the open door behind them, where voices can be heard. Misha rights his clothing as heads appear in the doorway. It's that kid, the math genius, Jensen, and a really tall guy. They stop talking when they see Misha and Mike fumbling with their zippers.

"Uh, hey."

"Hey, Jensen, what's up?" Mike says, cool as a cucumber. Misha stifles a laugh with his fist.

"...Nothing. I was wondering if you had Apocalypse Now."

"Let me check."

Mike turns to the shelves and Jensen steps forward. "Hey, I'm Jensen."

"Misha," Misha says, and shakes Jensen's hand when it's offered, which seems like an exceptionally formal greeting, all things considered.

"I'm Jared," says the tall guy, coming forward. "You're new, right?"

"Yeah. Nice to meet you both," says Misha. They're wearing tracksuits in the school colors. Jared's wearing a sweatshirt, Jensen, just a t-shirt. They look sweaty, like they just came from a run. And something else, too. He notices how close they're standing to each other and how opposite their reactions are: Jensen looks like he's playing Anywhere but Here while Jared looks pleased as pie. It makes him wonder. Statistically, it's highly unlikely that they're fooling around, but then again, the Kinsey scale was all self-reported; who knows what strapping young American boys get up to in the lonely Midwest.

Misha realizes he's staring and he coughs. Jensen's looking off into space but Jared's smiling at him like he knows what he walked in on, and he approves. They stand around awkwardly not talking until Mike finds the film and hands it to Jensen.

"Cool, thanks," Jensen says.

Jared smiles at them and says, "See you around."

When they're alone Misha asks, "Do you think they suspected?"

"Um, yeah, probably," Mike says. "Does that bother you?"

Misha thinks about it for a minute. "No," he says. "Does it bother you?"

"Oh please. If I freaked out every time someone in this school knew I was gay, I'd never do anything else."

"So you're pretty much out, then?" Misha closes the door and then steps back over next to Mike, who grins.

"I don't think I was ever in. When I was five, my Grandma caught me putting on her makeup."

"What'd she do?"

"She showed me how to put on the blush so it looked more natural."

Misha laughs. "Wow, she sounds like a pretty cool lady."

"Yeah," Mike says. "She is."

"Was it my imagination, or did those two seem like they were more than friends?"

"Who, the mathlete and the basketball player?" Mike shakes his head. "Never gonna happen. Besides, Jensen's got a thing going on with Coach Morgan."

"Right," Misha says, flatly unbelieving.

"It's true."

Misha thinks again about statistics. Also, "If it _is_ true, Morgan could get in a lot of trouble."

"Which is why nobody knows," Mike says, picking up where they left off when they'd been so rudely interrupted by students who'd dared to ask him to do his job.

Misha tilts his head back and shivers when Mike bites his earlobe. "But you just--"

"Sh," says Mike.

*

"Great paté, but I gotta motor," Misha says, scooting back from the table.

"Where are you off to?" his stepdad asks. He means well, Misha knows, but everything he says comes out in this annoyingly nasal tone that makes Misha's skin crawl.

"There's a screening of Jules et Jim downtown," he says. It's funny because it's true: they've been attempting to reinvigorate the old section of town near the railroad tracks; the movie house has switched over to playing foreign and classic films. Mike's a volunteer projectionist; tonight's film was his idea. He's got a wicked sense of humor. Misha likes it. He also likes Mike, far more than he thought he would. It's weird that he's made a friend. Maybe more than a friend. It's weird, but nice.

"Don't be too late," his stepdad says. "Your mom will worry."

"Tell the general I ate all my brussels sprouts and did all my trig," Misha says, and maybe lets the door slam as he leaves.

When he gets to the theater there's a crowd at the entrance. Upon closer inspection, Misha doubts it's for the movie.

"What's up," he says when Mike walks over. He squeezes Misha's shoulder in greeting. The AV lab is one thing, making out in front of God and everybody on Main Street is entirely another.

"Take a wild guess," Mike says.

Misha scans the crowd. There's a knot of football players off to one side, Welling in the middle of it looking wild-eyed. "Did Tom beat up another queer?"

Mike looks himself up and down before he says, "So far as I know, all queers present and accounted for, so no, but yes, Tom was, in fact, the instigator. Apparently someone looked at his girlfriend."

"For reals?" Misha rolls his eyes. "Why's he such an angry young man?"

"Well," Mike says, cracking his spine in a twist. "You know what I vote for. Sublimated homosexy feelings will always be a classic."

"Maybe, but still. Why do douchey, Tom?"

Mike laughs. "Yeah. He's kind of asking for a beatdown. Hey," he snaps his fingers. "Maybe _that's_ what it is. Maybe Ol' Tommy just wants someone to stand up to him; metaphorically bend him over."

"Can you think of any reason that doesn't involve anal penetration, metaphorical or otherwise?"

"No," Mike says. "But I can think of one or two ways to give Mr. Welling what he's so clearly begging for. What do you say, you in?"

Misha's always in for a little mischief. "What do you need me to do?"

*

In the end they decide to steal the drug-free flag and plant it in Welling's locker. Mike had then made an anonymous phone call to the principal and entertainment had ensued. When Misha had asked why the drug-free flag, Mike had smiled knowingly. "Let's just say that if a clean piss test was a requirement to be on the football team, there would be no football team." He'd shrugged. "Like I said, no cable."

"Hey turd burglar." They're leaving the building when Tom's voice booms down the hall. Mike stiffens, but keeps walking. Misha looks behind them. Tom's thundering after them, full posse in tow. "Hey faggot, I'm talking to you."

Misha blinks, a sinking feeling in his gut. Mike stops walking and turns around.

Mike and Tom are nose to nose and Mike says, "Would you like some making fuck?" And Misha cracks up. They'd watched Clerks the night before, and had sung the Berserker song over and over. It's a callback that doesn't exactly translate.

Mike's gonzo stab at diffusing the situation with absurdity, while amusing, only delays the inevitable. Tom's confused face and the twittering laughter of the cheerleaders last about half a second. He grabs Mike by his jacket and shakes him. "You think you're real funny, don't you?"

Suave as anything, Mike says, "I think I'm hilarious."

Misha steps up then, unsure of what he can do beyond absorb a punch or two himself. "Hey, man, come on."

"You're next, knob gobbler," says Tom, and then Misha gets pissed.

"Enough," he says. "Do I go around calling you clam digger? I don't know what your problem is, but you don't get to take it out on other people anymore. Go find a therapist, you walking cliché."

Tom snarls, throwing Mike into the wall and a poster advertising all the fun to be had at prom. It crumples as he slides down. "You better watch your back," he says and stomps away.

Mike takes Misha's hand and stands up. He's clearly shaken but trying to hide it. "Are you okay?" Misha asks.

"Yeah," he says. "Come on, let's blow this popsicle stand."

Mike hasn't dropped his hand, and as they head toward the door, Misha squeezes it tight.

*

Misha's twirling his pen, leaning against the counter when Mike walks in. Misha smiles.

"You know what the next best thing to working in a bookstore is?" Mike says.

"What?"

"Having a boyfriend who works in a bookstore."

Misha stops twirling the pen. Recent events have perhaps made their relationship a little more public than he'd first anticipated, but. "Boyfriend?" he asks.

Mike shrugs. "Yeah? I mean, if you want. No pressure or anything. I'd say we could see other people, but there's not exactly a huge dating pool around here."

"Hm," Misha says, and a woman steps up clutching the latest Grisham. Instead of wrinkling his nose at her choice, he asks nicely if she'd like to join their frequent buyers club program. She declines; Misha hands her the receipt and her book and then Mike's back at the counter, looking like he's trying too hard to be relaxed.

Misha's never considered himself to be the boyfriend type. It's not as if it's come up before. But it's also not as if he's morally opposed to the idea. Especially not when the idea applies to Mike. "Well," he says. "I was going to give this to you after I got off work, but I feel that in honor of the occasion, I should give my boyfriend his present now." He hands over a copy of Cavafy's love poems. The expression on Mike's face makes Misha's heart melt.

"Wow, a boyfriend and presents, all in one day. You know, I'm pretty traditional at heart," Mike says.

"Oh yeah?"

"Uh huh. White gown, Mendelssohn's Wedding March, a veil."

"I see," says Misha.

"So. When a boy gives you a present, it only seems fair that a lady give one in return." Mike bats his eyelashes coyly.

"And what could you possibly mean by that, I wonder?" Misha's leaning over the counter. The lights dim, indicating that the store will be closing in five minutes.

Mike's smirk is wicked. He takes a brown paper bag out of his coat pocket and slides it across the counter. "Open it."

Misha does. Inside is a box of Trojans and a tube of KY. "Mm," he says.

"I'll be in the car when you're done closing up."

"Can't wait," says Misha. "Oh, and Mike?"

Mike turns back at the door. "Yeah?"

"Does that mean you're going to be expecting a ring?"

"Diamonds are a girl's best friend," he says breathily. Misha's boss looks up from straightening the New Fiction table.

Misha grins as he tucks the paper bag in his pocket.

*

They're lying in Mike's bed, eating popcorn and watching a Hal Ashby marathon, when Mike asks him, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Misha turns and Mike raises his head from Misha's chest. "I don't know yet," he says. "Either a poet or a politician, I think."

"Huh," says Mike. "Because those aren't two mutually exclusive categories."

"They're not," Misha insists. "There's a certain kind of poetics to politics."

"Not to mention the politics of poetry," says Mike.

"God, no. Let's not mention those." Misha shudders. "Anyway, before I decide, I'm definitely going to travel."

"You haven't done enough of that already? You mean you're not yearning to settle down somewhere, spawn two or three little Mishas?"

"Yeah, totally; one of each. No," he says. "It's different, when you get to choose where you're going, you know?"

Mike nods.

"What about you?" Misha asks, smacking Mike's ass.

Mike shrugs. "Haven't decided yet. So far my long-term plans involve A) getting out of this town and B) getting out of this town."

"I'm sensing that you want to get out of this town."

Mike rolls over and stretches, making the popcorn spill everywhere. "I know, so cliché, right? Small town boy with big-city glitter dreams."

"Speaking of clichés," Misha says. "In the finest tradition of high school movies everywhere, there aren't any adults in this town. When am I going to meet your grandma?"

Mike sits up, gathering the spilled popcorn off the bed. "Oh, you know. She works a lot. One of these days..." And in his efforts to be tidy, he _has_ to get the kernels that fell between Misha's legs.

After that there's less talking.

*

Later, clothing mostly restored and Harold and Maude rewound to the part where Harold meets Glaucus and Maude's posing nude, Misha picks up the thread of their conversation. "You know another cliché I've been thinking about?"

"What's that," Mike asks, rubbing his bare toes along Misha's calf.

"Prom."

"Ugh," says Mike. "That old hag. I think they're literally doing 'Under the Sea' this year. Can you believe it?"

Misha nods gravely. "I think we should go."

"Where?"

"To prom."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

Mike laughs, mischief in his eyes. "Right, I could totally picture it. You'd stride purposefully across the gym floor, looking dashing in your thousand dollar tux, and I'd be sitting off to the side, looking boyishly handsome in my rented one. Me and my BFF Daphne would be laughing about how lame high school is, and you'd swoop in, cutting a swath through the gaping children. You'd sweep me off my feet and we'd dance in the center of the spotlight, all care for the boringly heteronormative ritual we're disrupting forgotten. Then you'd slip your white silk scarf around my neck as I walked you to your jeep. No, wait, I know how this one ends. No thanks."

Misha's heart tightens with the overload of affection his has for Mike in this moment. When he gets himself under control he says, "Why do you get to be Justin? I want to be Justin. You keep casting yourself in all the fun roles."

Mike clutches imaginary pearls. "What? First of all, Justin doesn't exactly get the fun end of the stick--"

"Oh," Misha says. "Bad metaphor."

"―Oh. Right. Anyway, what other roles do you covet that I won't let you have?"

Misha sits up against the headboard and counts off on his fingers. "Last week you got to be Doris Day and made me Rock Hudson when we were on the phone."

"You called me in the media lab! I was a career girl."

Undeterred, Misha goes on. "The other day you got to be Mama Rose."

"Which makes you Gypsy Rose Lee, _hello_. Only the sexiest stripper ever."

"And earlier you made _me_ Maude. Which makes no sense. If you're going to be consistent, _you'd_ be Maude, since A) she 's the girl and B) she's the dramatic free spirit, which hardly applies to me."

Mike bites back a grin. He says, "Ok, I'll give you that one. I just wanted to sing 'Trouble' along with Cat Stevens. How about this," he says, and wiggles into Misha's lap. "Next time we watch it, _you_ can be Maude."

Misha makes a mock-disgruntled noise. "Next time, I'm going to be Sunshine Doré."

"Well, _Door_ , actually," says Mike, and then they lose their clothes again.

There's a moment, in between unbuttoning his jeans and slipping them off, where Misha realizes just how lucky he is to have found Mike.

*

"I wish you'd at least stay for dinner, his mom says.

"We've talked about this," says Misha. "I can't sit around hoping that the Pentagon will give you the night off. If you want to have a family dinner, book it in advance. Send me an email."

"Misha," she says, disapproving. The doorbell rings.

"That's my ride. See you later." He kisses her on the cheek as he heads to the front door. Mike's standing on the other side of it, looking natty in a bow tie, holding up a bouquet of flowers.

"Told you next time you'd get to be the girl," he says. Misha laughs.

"Is that your friend?" Misha's mom is behind him now, peering over his shoulder. Misha sighs and swings the door open wider.

Mike steps in and bows. "Enchanté," he says.

Misha watches his mom get totally charmed by Mike's cornball routine. "Those are for you, Mom. This is Mike. My boyfriend."

She goes from delighted to puzzled in about a half a second. Mike's eyes are big as saucers, but he's not one to fail in the social graces. "Michael Rosenbaum, Ma'am. Pleasure to finally meet you. You have a lovely son."

"Well, I-- Thank you, Michael, that's very kind of you. He certainly keeps me on my toes."

Misha takes the flowers out of Mike's hands and puts them into his mother's. "See you later, Mom," he says. "Don't wait up."

When they're at the car, Mike hisses, "Did you just come out to your mom?"

Misha waits until he's inside, buckling up to say, "Yeah."

Mike runs around to the other side of the car and climbs in, laughing. "Holy shit. Seriously?"

Misha shrugs. Too much thought tends to ruin good plans. "So you never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Will you go to prom with me?"

Mike looks him askance. If Misha was a betting man, he'd wager that he'd just made Michael Rosenbaum speechless. Miracles never cease.

"I can't believe you." He starts up the car.

"I have it all planned," Misha says. "We can wear matching tuxedoes. Sea foam green cummerbunds and carnations. It'll be wicked."

"Gosh, it all sounds so tempting."

"And afterwards I thought, to be really romantic, we could rent a room at the Howard Johnson's on the interstate."

"You really know how to romance a boy," Mike says.

"So that's a yes?"

Sighing a sigh of the much beleaguered, Mike says, "It's a yes."

*

It actually is 'Under the Sea.' There are cardboard seahorses and octopi hanging from fishing wire. There's a disco ball in the center of the ceiling and crepe paper that almost completely obscures the school mascot.

Of course, all the construction paper and glitter in the world can't mask the odor of sweaty gym socks that pervades the space, but Misha guesses they tried their best.

Mike looks awesome, even if he declined to wear a tux to match Misha's. Instead he's in a vintage black suit, skinny tie. It had belonged, Mike had explained, to his grandfather, and hadn't been removed from the mothballs since the old man had passed, in 1966.

It looks good on him and when Misha stands really close, it blocks out the scent of the gym.

Misha's own ensemble consists of the finest array of Salvation Army and church basement bazaar clothing that money could buy. Mike had said that he looked like Duckie from Pretty in Pink. Misha thinks that's mostly down to the creepers he's wearing, but he chooses to take it as a compliment.

At the door there's a mild kerfuffle. It seems that two boys do not make a couple, and Trisha, the queen of the prom committee, is insisting that they buy an extra ticket.

Misha's pulling out his wallet, unwilling to explain to these backwoods cretins that, in fact, the only criteria for a _couple_ is that it consist of not less than, but not to exceed, two people. Mike is, of course, launching into the history of oppression and gay liberation for the benefit of all present.

He's just about reached Stonewall, with a tangent about how Judy died too soon, when Coach Morgan intervenes.

He kindly explains the school's tolerance policy and what constitutes discrimination. Then he tells Misha to put his wallet away. Trisha makes a sour face, but stamps their hands anyway. Misha's caught up in watching Coach Morgan walk away. The man can cleans up nice.

Mike bumps his shoulder and says, "So much for ENDA, huh?"

"Hey man, who needs a federal law ensuring non-discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity when gay people are so clearly winning their agenda? We've got freedom to marry," Misha lists them off on his fingers. "Freedom to openly serve in the military, the ability to appoint our legally recognized spouses as heirs and powers of attorney, the ability to adopt children...Oh no, wait, that's straight people. I always get it confused."

"Yeah, but I'll tell you what, if the gays have it in their agenda to infiltrate our schools and get us to succumb to the darkside by planting incredibly hot gym teachers for us to ogle, then I think they really are winning."

"I know, right? Damn, that man is sex in a suit. If Jensen isn't hitting that, you up for a threesome?"

"Threesome," says Mike, handing Misha a glass of punch. "Hell, Jensen can join in, too."

"Yeah," says Misha. "He's not too shabby himself." He gestures to the corner where Jensen and Jared are huddled around an iPhone. "But seriously, the gym teacher and the math genius?"

Mike nods. "It's almost criminal."

"Technically," says Misha. "It _is_ criminal, but I take your point."

*

For all his bravado, Misha still hasn't worked up the courage to dance in public with Mike. The prom's half over; they've handed out the crowns for king and queen—neither of whom were people Misha recognized, but to be honest, since meeting Mike he's been a little preoccupied—and Mike is being very patient. He pretty much came here just to humor Misha.

When the next slow song comes on, they both lose their shit. It's "Save the Last Dance for Me."

"What do you think," Misha asks. "Would we be tempting fate?"

Mike stands up and holds out his hand. Misha takes it. "We make our own fate, baby." he says.

They join the other couples dancing. It's awkward for a moment, until Mike says, "Alright look, I know I make a lot of jokes about which one of us is the girl, but that's only because I'm all post-modern and stuff. You and I both know that this is a relationship of equals. That does not, however, mean that you get to _lead_."

"But I don't know how to follow," Misha says.

Mike leans in closer, puts his lips next to Misha's ear and whispers, "Just pretend we're in bed." And then he ducks away before Misha can retaliate.

After that, the dancing actually does go smoother. Misha relaxes, even though he knows everyone's staring. It's not like Queer as Folk at all, but Misha figures that's because this is real life, and he's not the protagonist of an epically pornographic five-year saga. At least, he hopes not. If he is, he's been seriously cheated out of the porn so far.

No, instead of the lights all focusing on them, and all the people forming a circle, mostly they're just getting furtive glances from the other dancers. Misha shifts closer to Mike and rests his head on Mike's shoulder. He closes his eyes and enjoys the moment. No matter what else happens tonight, they can't take this away from him.

"Thanks for putting up with my shenanigans," he says.

Mike pulls back to look at him. He smiles. "You know that I'll always put up with your shenanigans, right? I will also put up with your tomfoolery and your hijinks. But I draw the line at ballyhoo. Just so you know."

He smiles again, so Misha has to kiss him. Mike kisses back, and it starts off chaste, but quickly morphs. Misha forgets about where they are, and what kind of fucking personal-is-political statement every moment of affection he feels has to be. He lets it all go for a blissful, timeless moment. Mike picks him up and spins him around.

"See," he says. "You get to be Justin. But just for the length of this song."

Out of the corner of his eye, Misha sees rapid movement, black and white, a flash of a fist. There's yelling. Everyone stops dancing.

Jared and Tom are brawling. Misha's running towards it, totally forgetting the likelihood of getting stomped. Jensen's getting in between them, and Tom connects a right hook to Jensen's jaw. Jared jumps Tom from behind and before Misha can get close enough, Mike's in there, swinging. Tom's yelling at Mike. Misha watches Mike's face twist as he lands a punch to Tom's gut, and Tom crumples. Jared goes down, too.

It's over in a second, maybe less, but Misha feels like it's happening in slow motion. He looks up from the tangle of Tom and Jared, to where Mike's heaving, leaning on his knees. He looks crazy. Misha goes to him. "Are you okay?"

Mike's nodding, waving Misha over to Jensen, who's sitting on the floor, nursing his jaw. Misha kneels, pulls his pocket square out and starts dabbing at Jensen's lip. "Jesus. What happened?"

Coach Morgan is right behind him. "That's what I'd like to know," he says.

Jensen shakes his head. "It's nothing. Tom's a hothead. Jared tried to stop him--"

Jared comes over, looking none the worse for wear. "Tom was threatening to kick the shit out of Mike," he says. Misha looks behind him, where the principal has a firm grip on Tom's lapel. Mike's seething. Misha disengages from the knot forming around Jared and heads to Mike.

"Hey," he says, resting his hand on Mike's arm. "You okay?"

Mike blows out a breath, visibly shaking off his anger. "Yeah. Fucking Tom. What the fuck is his problem?"

"I don't know," says Misha, looking over to where Tom's getting the riot act read to him. His face is all over bruises; his coat is torn. Misha looks back over at Jared. He'd rather not have other people fight his battles for him, but he's gotta say: Jared does it with style. "But I have a feeling that he's finally gotten the attention of the authorities. Maybe they can help him sort it out."

"Good luck," Mike says.

"I read this book once," Misha says, leaning against Mike's side. "Where the guy said that if there isn't a word for a concept in your language, then you don't have that concept."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. But I think he was full of shit. Because _schadenfreude_ isn't English, but I'm definitely feeling it right now."

"Well, that's probably because you're European at heart," Mike says.

They watch Tom get led out of the gym. Coach Morgan pauses as he walks out, saying, "I'm sorry about that, guys. He's going to spend the night in county lockup. Let him cool off."

"Jesus," Misha says.

"What?"

Misha shrugs. "I almost feel bad for him. I mean, he's been asking for metaphorical penetration, sure, but jail. That might be a bit more literal."

Mike's silent for a minute, and then he starts laughing. "I think I love you, Misha Collins."

Misha had already been grinning. Now he's full-on smiling. "I'm very pleased to hear that, Mr. Rosenbaum. You know," he pulls on Mike's hand until they're back on the dance floor. There's no one else, and there isn't any music. "We're very close to graduation."

"Uh huh," says Mike. He goes with it when Misha starts to guide him around to imaginary music.

"And you know I've been thinking of doing some traveling after that."

Mike nods.

"Well, I was recalling your big city glitter dreams, and I figured that, what with all the traveling, I'm bound to hit at least one glittery city."

"I see," say Mike, gamely doing a dip when Misha braces him.

"Anyway, it wouldn't be too much of a hardship to have one more passenger."

"That's very generous of you, Mr. Collins." Mike spins him out for a pirouette. When he returns, Mike says, "you had that all planned, didn't you?"

"I did. There's a diorama."

"I need to see this diorama."

"It involves glitter."

"My favorite kind."

They're dancing under the spotlight, alone in the gym. Misha goes into a dip.

"Hey Mike?"

"Hm?"

"I love you, too."

The End  


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